


Strings and Sealing Wax

by rockstarpeach



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sex, deal making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockstarpeach/pseuds/rockstarpeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guilt and booze are never a good combination.  At least, that's what Sam thought until he set out to make a deal for his memories back, and ended up with a yearly pass for a night with his dead lover, instead.  Sam doesn't know why and he doesn't know how – hell, he's not even sure it's really Gabriel – but for the first time in his life, Sam finds himself looking forward to Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings and Sealing Wax

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant throughout the years since Gabriel left the show, but some events are slightly altered in timeline so that events in this story happen at Christmas time. Starts during S6 and continues through S9.  
> Written for [](http://ladyoneill.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ladyoneill.livejournal.com/)**ladyoneill** who likes Sam/Gabriel, Crowley, angst, fics set at holidays, bottom!Sam, dark fics, broken characters and hopeful endings. Have a very merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy!

Sam makes a deal.

At least, he's pretty sure he does. It's not the deal he'd wanted to make when he'd stumbled into his room at Bobby's house, uncertainty in his mind and guilt in his heart and more than a few too many hits off the vodka bottle he took from Dean's bag.

It's Christmas eve, a lonely, broken Christmas eve and the constant, overprotective, over _bearing_ reassurances of his big brother are no match for the suffocating weight of his newly restored soul. Bobby can't look at him, Dean can't _stop_ looking at him, touching him, feeding him leftover pizza and blueberry pie. He even made _tea_.

He made tea for Sam and he's been telling Sam that everything is okay, that he's okay, that _they're_ okay, but they're not. Sam's not and they're not and _nothing_ is. Not a damn thing is okay, not anymore and they don't understand, of course of they don't. How could they understand, with Bobby's wary glances and Dean's unconditional love (a love Sam never deserved, certainly not _now_ ), how could they understand that he can't live like this?

They didn't do it, they didn't... Shit, Sam doesn't even know what he did, that's the worst part. It's bad, it's _so_ bad and Sam knows that whatever actually happened is probably nowhere near as bad as his imagination but... but what if it's not? What if it's _worse_ and that's why Dean won't tell him, won't let him remember?

It's for his own good, Dean keeps saying but Sam doesn't care. _Can't_ care, not when he's halfway through his second bottle, drunk and stupid and hating himself, needing answers more than he needs his next breath, needing to know what he did wrong so he can make it right.

He'll pay what he has to, he doesn't care. He just needs to make it right.

He scribbles on his floor, drunkenly stumbles over a few words of Latin, stands back and waits.

“Oh you poor, stupid sod.”

Sam blinks his eyes open and jerks at the words, sways on his unsteady feet and grips the bottle tighter in his hand. He might be surprised to see who it was that showed up, if he could think straight enough for surprise at the moment.

“I want to make a deal,” he manages to get out, words slurred and sloppy.

Crowley laughs. Cruel, mocking laughter and Sam lets it curl around him, squeeze and suffocate him, hopes it might pull him under. He deserves it.

“You haven't got anything I want, Moose. That soul of yours isn't quite so shiny and new anymore and I make it a point to keep away from Lucifer's sloppy seconds.”

“Please.” Sam's begging, voice hoarse as he stumbles forward, tripping over Dean's dufflebag. He lands in a pile half on top of it, the vodka sloshing out of the neck of the bottle to dot across his pant leg. This is it. Crowley can take his soul. He deserves Hell anyway, Sam knows that. He just needs some time before he goes, time to _make it right_. “I need... I want...”

Sam trails off then, slumps over a little as he catches sight of the edge of a DVD sticking out Dean's bag. He shifts, pushes and his fuzzy, alcohol-laced brain takes over and he forgets what he'd been asking for, forgets that he hurt people, a _lot_ of people and forgets that he needs to make amends. He forgets when he pulls the DVD out and he smiles, laughs a little hysterically at the face smiling back at him from the cover.

He didn't know Dean had kept it. It's kind of... really fucking disturbing, actually, which just makes him laugh harder.

It's been a long time and their... _relationship_ was tumultuous at best, but nobody had ever managed to get under Sam's skin quite like that self-righteous, cavalier asshole. _God_ Sam's missed him. Always thought he was so damn funny. Sam half hated the son of a bitch when he was around and life is definitely easier without him, but fuck if Sam doesn't miss the hell out of him. Damn near every day.

“Gabriel”, he whispers, blunt fingers nudging against the flat, paper image. He's still smiling, wistful and bittersweet and the last of that vodka is working its magic. Reality is quickly slipping away.

He's not sure what happens next, won't be the next day either, not really.

He remembers a distinct absence of gravity, his room too bright and then too dark. A snap of Crowley's fingers, a mumbled, distant “Soup's on, Moose. I'll be back later with the bill.”

He remembers arms around him; strong, soft, familiar arms and kisses over his cheeks and his nose, a whisper, a promise over his lips. He remembers being lifted, carried, remembers a warm body curled up next to his own on the roll-away cot in Bobby's third bedroom. He remembers soft hair under his fingers, soft skin against his own and a laugh. Real and warm and making his entire body shake with it, like it used to.

He remembers laughing right back, remembers being _happy_.

Remembers it was just what he needed, maybe even more than remembering what he wanted to in the first place.

He doesn't remember falling asleep but he remembers, very _clearly_ remembers being shaken gently awake when the glowing red numbers on the clock radio read 11:59pm, remembers Gabe's voice in his ear, sweet and slow, telling him _“My coach is about to turn back into a pumpkin. See you next year, Cinderella”_.

He remembers a kiss. Deep and long and so _real_ he'd wanted to cry. He remembers opening his eyes again to an empty room.

But he doesn't remember what happened, not really. He doesn't know, the next morning when he wakes up to a headache and a churned stomach and a twice broken heart, what he'd sold or what he'd really gotten in return.

He does remember, though, that Cinderella was the one with the pumpkin coach and that makes Sam Prince Charming.

***

It was a dream.

It _has_ to have been a dream. That's what he's been telling himself, anyway.

Crowley hasn't mentioned it, hasn't said a thing, hasn't come to collect whatever it was that Sam sold to him that night so the only explanation is that it was a drunken, lonely hallucination.

Still, he can't forget Gabriel's parting words, hasn't been able to get 'see you next year' out of his head so now, Bobby just a couple of weeks dead and burned and Dean screwing his pain away with a sexy little brunette in a Mrs. Claus outfit the next room over, Sam's wondering.

It's Christmas eve and Dean gave Sam a box of microwave popcorn and a bottle of peach schnapps and a muted, one-armed hug. Sam hugged back. He hugged back as hard as he could, because he needed it just as much as Dean did. Now, he's halfway through the third bag of popcorn and _A Christmas Story_ on cable.

He hasn't touched the booze.

He doesn't want his sense dulled. Just in case.

It's still early, not even nine o'clock but he's exhausted, emotionally and physically and his eyes must have slipped shut, he must have drifted off because one minute Randy is showing his mommy how the piggie eats (Dean always jokes that's what Sam looked like when he was a kid – Sam always counters that's what Dean looks like _now_ ) and the next he's feeling weightless, body moving counter to gravity.

He's being carried, he realises, arms solid and strong around his back and his legs and when he blinks his eyes open he's flat on the bed.

He's not drunk this time. He's not drunk and he's not suicidal and he lets out a deep, garbled sob. He was expecting this. He was making plans in his head for how it was going to go but now that it's here, he has no idea what to do, what to think.

He has no idea what to feel in face of his years-dead lover, back to share his bed again. He wants to ask, wants to know how this is possible, wants to know _why_ and for how long and what it all means, but he's too chickenshit to get the words out.

He doesn't want it not to be true and let's face it, he was _asleep_ less than a minute ago. Maybe he still is.

He opens his mouth. Not to say anything, not really but Gabriel takes advantage, presses his own against it, sticks his tongue inside, deep and sweeping and so damn sloppy it would be gross if Sam hadn't missed it so fucking much. Shit, Gabe goes at making out, making _love_ whole hog, puts everything he has into it. He's scared of nothing, never has been and Sam surrenders to it, spreads his legs when Gabriel nudges them apart, slinks between them, back where he belongs.

Back where he hasn't been since last Christmas, right where Sam wants him to be. Where Sam's always wanted him. Gabriel is a force of nature and for all the bad he's done, he's done good as well. For all that Sam wants nothing to do with him, Sam can't stay away. Can't do anything but give in to it, surrender fully and completely to the way the angel makes him feel.

“Archangel,” Gabriel says, pulling back to bite down fiercely on Sam's bottom lip.

“Huh?” Sam asks, blinks rapidly a few times and wraps his arms tighter around Gabriel's back, pulls him down into another kiss. There needs to be another kiss, right now. And another one after that and then another. They can't stop kissing, not even for a second, not even to talk because Gabriel will be gone soon. He'll be gone at midnight, or when Sam wakes up and they can't waste any of that time.

Not when being together like this makes Sam feel so damned good. When everything inside him tells him that it's wrong, but it never feels as right as it does when he's with Gabriel.

“I'm an archangel, not an angel,” Gabriel says, pulling free again. “And I wanted to be here just as much as you wanted me, kiddo.”

Sam shakes his head, frowns.

“Stop reading my mind.”

“Stop praying to me so loud,” Gabriel smiles. “And stop talking. We've only got a couple of hours.”

Sam nods, shaky and stilted and Gabriel pauses only for a moment before he's got both of Sam's wrists clamped in his left fist, held tight to the bed above Sam's head. Sam gives the hold an experimental tug and when Gabriel doesn't give an inch he tries a little harder.

“Hold still,” Gabriel orders. His voice is harsher, darker than it was just a moment ago, darker than it's ever been before and naturally Sam doesn't listen.

He struggles, twists his hips as much as he's able underneath the preternatural strength of Gabriel pressing down on him. It's always been like this, always Gabriel calling the shots, showing off how strong he is, how mortal Sam is. Sam doesn't even break a sweat kicking ass and taking names with his big brother day in and day out, but at the end of the day he can't deny that he likes to be taken care of, likes to feel safe. Wouldn't anybody? It's such a rarity and with Gabriel, he's always known that nothing could hurt him.

It's always been like this, Gabriel kissing down his neck, biting over his collar bone, breaking the skin and lapping it up, sealing the wound with his lips and his tongue.

It's always been Gabriel bending Sam to his will, Sam opening up for him, accepting him, gladly. It's always been like this, Gabriel strong and cocksure, ever the seducer and Sam caught in his orbit, happy to be there. Like it's always been.

But this isn't like it's always been.

Gabriel's touch is colder, his hands stiffer and when he works Sam's shirt up his chest, his pants down and off, it doesn't tickle like it used to. It's clinical, by the numbers almost, except for the way Gabriel whimpers against his ear, the way he groans and gasps his pleasure into Sam's skin.

The way he says, “Yes, Sam, _fuck_ yes,” when he slides inside, the way his hands move to the back of Sam's head, the way he can't speak for a while, can't move his lips, not even to kiss when he brings them both off with a few final skilled thrusts.

They way he says, “I miss you every day,” when it's over.

Sam falls asleep soon after, with Gabriel's hand on his chest, keeping him down. He wants to hold Gabriel close, be held by him but he's tired and he's sated and he's happy and he doesn't have the strength to fight so he just lies there, wishes Gabriel was closer than the six inches between their bodies, wishes there was no space at all.

He falls asleep on Christmas eve half a foot away from the twisted, unconventional love of his twisted, unconditional life and he wakes up Christmas morning, alone and cold.

***

Amelia's not his girlfriend, not exactly.

They're headed in that direction, he knows that but it's not enough to stop him from dodging her calls the two days leading up to Christmas. He even gets a room at a different motel for the night, just in case. He's still pretty sure he was dreaming, or that he's going crazy but there's a pretty big part of him that just doesn't care. It's not cheating, not if it's not real. Right?

Besides, he's had a tough year.

Dean's gone. He's _gone_ , Sam doesn't know where and he misses his brother like crazy and he's barely holding it together. He wakes up every day, he eats his breakfast and he brushes his teeth and he puts on a smile. He fixes air conditioners and chats with his neighbours and he crawls into bed every night half wishing he'd never wake up again.

So he needs a little comfort, needs to lose himself for an hour, a night in a dream.

He upends his bottle of whisky and flicks on the television, falls back onto the bed and waits.

He doesn't fall asleep, he's almost sure he doesn't but one second he's staring at the ceiling listening to a PBS Christmas choir special and the next he's flat on his stomach, a hand clamped tight over his mouth and a solid weight pressing down on him from above.

“Don't move,” Gabriel's voice rasps into his ear and Sam's eyes flutter shut, he shivers and breathes out a slow, shaky sigh.

“Gabriel,” he chokes out when the hand eases down to curl rough fingers around his throat.

“Shh,” Gabriel tuts, fingers curling a little bit, enough force now to bruise, slightly. “No talking, either. Be a good boy, Sammy. Be my good boy.”

Sam can't fight the way he trembles at those words, so familiar and so foreign at once. Gabriel is the only one besides Dean he's let get away with Calling him 'Sammy' and they might have gotten up to a game or two back in the day where Gabriel was in a position to let a 'good boy' slip. And Sam might have gotten off on that, _hard_ but there's an edge now that there never was before, a sharpness that cuts through Sam's rose-coloured memories but not his desire.

Sam's naked, he only just realises and not long after that so is Gabriel. Angel mojo, maybe. Or more likely this is all in his head. Gabriel shoves Sam's legs apart, rough knees to Sam's inner thighs and his nails dig into the skin around Sam's jugular as he bites down gently on the back of Sam's shoulder.

He lets out a tiny whimper, curls his knees up higher to give Gabriel more access, to make the slide of his thick, rigid cock through Sam's cheeks easier, smoother.

“Gabe,” he whimpers, whispers and the hand around his thigh grips tighter.

“I said no talking,” he says, the words growled out against Sam's spine as Sam is suddenly filled, all at once and without warning or preparation. Sam yells, loud and open-mouthed because it _hurts_ , damnit but then his hands are over his head, pinned to the headboard and the fingers wrapped around his wrists hurt more than his ass does and his cries fade.

“Shit, I've missed this,” Gabriel grunts as he works himself in and out a few times, slow and then faster when the ride smooths out. “So hot, so tight. Never anything like you, Sammy.”

Sam forces himself to breathe through it, to relax until it feels good. He wants this, he _does_ and he and Gabe aren't exactly strangers to a little bondage and rough sex. Sam's always liked it hard.

Besides, the pain is good right now, wakes him up in a way he hasn't been in months, makes him feel something besides loss and heartache. Maybe Gabriel knows that, maybe he's doing this for Sam. Maybe the harsh way he hammers inside again and again, the rough, dry fingers around Sam's cock to bring him off are on purpose, because it's what Sam needs.

Gabriel has always taken care of him.

“Good,” Gabriel coos, rocking in and out slower now, letting them both come down. He kisses the back of Sam's neck, his fingers loosen around Sam's throat. “So good for me. I've missed you, Sammy.”

Sam doesn't answer. He was told not to. Instead, he arches back against Gabriel, clenches down around his flagging cock and he smiles inside when Gabriel hisses, bites down onto Sam's neck in retaliation.

“I've moved on,” Sam tells him. It's spiteful, maybe. No, not maybe, it is. He's angry with Gabriel for leaving him, angry with him for coming back each year as a tease, angry that he's less and less like the Gabriel he knew, when nobody else was looking.

Gabriel laughs out loud.

“No, you haven't. You might think you have, but trust me kiddo, you haven't.”

Sam wants to answer, wants to tell Gabriel to stuff it, that he doesn't know what he's talking about, but a niggling little space in the back of his mind is insisting that maybe Gabriel knows more than Sam wants to admit. So he scowls, instead. Rolls to the side so his back is to Gabe and he falls asleep.

He falls asleep to an angel's warmth at his back and hand on his hip and he wakes up cold and alone.

****

Sam's not proud of himself.

He's done a lot of shady shit in his day, but he's just slept with a married woman, then left her like yesterday's garbage without even a 'thanks, that was fun'.

And it was for her benefit. It was, in that he wasn't ready to leave Dean and their ridiculous fucking _quest for the greater good_ or whatever the hell they're doing these days and she was right; it's not fair to keep her hanging on. Like Dean did with Lisa.

So basically, he left her for Dean.

For Dean and for the cause, and maybe, just _maybe_ because it was coming up on Christmas.

And Sam might be crazy, he hasn't given up on that theory yet, but this year he's expecting it. He's expecting Gabriel, he's _counting_ on him and he gets a separate room again and he doesn't turn on the television. He opens up his laptop and researches Enochian Tablets until his eyes cross.

“Such a good little worker bee,” a voice says from behind him, suddenly. Just as sudden are the arms wrapped around him from behind, the palms flat on his chest and his stomach. “Busy, busy, busy. Want to take a break?”

Sam doesn't answer. He doesn't get the chance before he's flat on his back, on his bed with Gabriel flat on top of him. Gabriel kisses him. His lips are warm, they're soft and they're pliant and they give when when Sam pushes. He _makes_ Sam push, makes him work for it and when Sam is writhing against him, whimpering and twisting and pleading for more, Gabriel gives it to him.

He strips Sam, supernaturally _slowly_ this time, he strips Sam. His lips make their way over his body, follow his fingers as they bare inch after inch of skin and what feels like a lifetime later Sam is finally naked. Finally so is Gabriel and he settles between Sam's legs and... kisses him some more.

Deeper this time, slower. He grinds down against Sam, grids until they're both achingly hard and leaking and then he stops. He starts again when Sam grunts in frustration but it's just as slow as everything else has been.

“Fuck me!” Sam growls, fingers clawing into Gabriel's shoulders as his legs struggle to open wider, to work Gabriel's hips exactly where Sam wants them. “Come on you son of a bitch, _fuck me_. You've been an asshole about it more than enough times, what's with the precious act all of a sudden?”

“Not an act,” Gabriel answers, voice calm and level as he kisses his way down Sam's sternum. “You're precious to me, Sam.”

Sam doesn't know what to say to that.

He's never had to think of a response because Gabriel's never _said_ anything like that to him. He didn't think Gabriel was capable of it. Didn't think he felt that kind of emotion.

Sam's been in love for a damn long time. He has and he's tired of pretending he hasn't, but he never once tried to kid himself that his feelings were returned. So this, this whatever is happening right now is even more unsettling than the callous detachment of the last three years.

And when Gabriel proceeds to make love to him, slowly and sweetly and so that Sam _aches_ and cries and begs to ache harder until he's a withered, spent mess, he means to be suspicious, he does but he's way too tired.

This time he fights sleep. Fights it until he can't anymore and he can see the first rays of the sun peaking through the cracks in the curtains when he desperately, clumsily wraps an arm and a leg around his angel. If he holds on tight enough, if he wants hard enough, maybe. Maybe Gabriel will be there in the morning.

He's not.

***

“You poor son of a bitch,” Gabriel says. He's standing full across the room this time, tutting and shaking his head and his eyes are sad, _so sad_ when he looks at Sam. It's Christmas again and Sam didn't even have to ask. Dean's long gone, guilty over forcing an angel up inside Sam without his permission and Sam hates him for it. Hates him but he doesn't because he kind of understands. What would Sam do, if his brother was going to die? Anything, that's what. So he hates Dean. Right now he does but he won't, always.

And right now Sam's sitting in the straight-backed chair, feet on the floor, arms crossed, shoulders tensed.

He's been waiting.

Sam doesn't remember seeing Gabriel show up, only knows that he wasn't there and now he is. It's... unsettling.

“Just got your body back and now here I am, to defile it again.”

“Can we... not talk?” Sam asks. He's really not in the mood. Especially if Gabriel's going to be a giant jackass, which – let's face it – he probably is.

“Aww, Sammy, don't be like that,” Gabriel cajoles, stepping closer to take Sam's hand. Sam doesn't fight him, but he doesn't help, either. “You know, these little conjugals of ours aren't going to last forever. And you're going to miss me when I'm gone. Again.”

Sam freezes at that, his body goes even stiffer and his blood feels like ice.

“What... what do you mean?” Because he doesn't know what this is. He doesn't know what this is or _why_ this is and he doesn't even know if this... this _thing_ in front of him is actually his lover or not. But what he does know is that he doesn't want it to end, not now. It might be a dream, it might be a demon with an Angel's face, it might be psychotic hallucination, but Sam's just about decided that he's willing to pretend.

“It's a limited time offer,” Gabriel tells him. He gives Sam's hand a tug and Sam lets himself be pulled to his feet. He follows Gabriel to the bed, goes when he's pushed down onto his back and blinks up, swallows around the lump in his throat when Gabriel straddles his hips, leans down press a sweet, butterfly kiss to his nose. “I don't know when it ends, I only know it does. So let's not waste time pouting, when we can get to the good stuff.”

Gabriel waggles his eyebrows and Sam rolls his eyes. He lets out a small snicker despite himself.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “Okay.” Because Gabriel is right. Sam might be in a shitty mood these days, but that's hardly Gabriel's fault.

He pushes at Gabriel's chest, harsh and sudden and with a look of mild surprise, the angel backs off. Sam scrambles at Gabriel's waist for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. He fumbles with Gabriel's belt buckle for approximately four seconds before he's being lifted, spun like he weighs nothing and deposited face down on the mattress.

“Ah ah,” Gabriel tuts. “I run this show, remember?”

“That's because you're a sociopathic control freak,” Sam mumbles into the crack between pillows, but there's not much heat behind it. He's used to Gabriel, he _likes_ him like this. It's oddly comforting when his own clothes are all but ripped from his body and then – out of _nowhere_ – he finds himself blindfolded and his writs are bound in something so soft it can't be real, hands tied to the corners of the bed.

“No,” Gabriel says, quietly, softly. “It's because I can't think straight when I'm around you. You do something to me, Sammy. You make me crazy. It's like I... like I _need_ you. More now than I ever did when...”

He trails off and pushes his hips forward, the sharp metal of his belt buckle digging uncomfortably into the soft flesh of Sam's ass. “Hold still,” he says instead, lower now, almost a growl. “Hold still and shut up.”

Sam turns his head so his cheek is pressed against the pillow and he snarls, but he doesn't say anything and he certainly doesn't move. He knows from experience that it wouldn't do any good. If Gabriel wants him still and quiet, then Sam's going to be still and quiet, one way or another. He shivers slightly at knowing that and his cock twitches and starts to harden.

Gabriel is _such_ an asshole. And fuck if Sam doesn't need him right back.

He fights the urge to push back against Gabriel's groin, to wriggle and moan and tease, to hiss and swear and threaten in order to get what he wants. He doesn't though, because he was told not to. Besides, he knows if he just waits it out, Gabriel is going to make it so, _so_ good.

“Such a good little bitch,” Gabriel coos, open palm gripping Sam's right cheek hard and lifting it to open Sam up, show off his hole. Sam lets out a grunt of frustration, of anger, of embarrassment because he's _not_ a 'good little bitch', they both know he's not but it still turns them both on for Gabriel to say it.

Sam bites his tongue until he tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and then a cry is forced from him when Gabriel fills him up, sudden and hard and dry. It hurts like a bitch.

“You _prick_ ,” Sam hisses, but he grinds right back onto Gabriel's cock just as hard as he would have if Gabriel had worked himself in slow and sweet, whispering pretty little nothings into Sam's ear.

Gabriel pounds into him a few more times, harder than the first. Just to make a point. Then he slows down, bends so his bare chest covers Sam's back and he places his open mouth over Sam's ear.

“You love it,” Gabriel whispers. “You can play the indignant, independent, big, strong, manly man all you want. But you _love_ it when I put you in your place.”

Sam roars underneath Gabriel at that, thrashes against his bindings and bucks his hips back against Gabriel's cock, buried inside him. It's not that Gabriel is _wrong_ necessarily, but he's not entirely right, either.

“Go ahead, you sexy thing,” Gabriel says. “Tell me what's on that pretty little mind of yours.” It's permission, permission to talk and be heard like a human being and it grates on Sam even harder.

Thing is, Sam _does_ like to be dominated. By Gabriel, anyway. That doesn't mean being bound and silenced underneath someone stronger is in any way, shape or form Sam's _place_. Seriously, what the fuck?

Sam says nothing.

Gabriel knows it all, anyway and saying it out loud would only make his position weaker.

“No?” Gabriel asks, after a minute or so, still gently fucking into Sam's ass while his hand traces up and down Sam's ribs. “That's fine, kiddo. You just sit back and take it. You take what I give you.”

Sam does.

He'd be an idiot not to. Sure, he could express his offence, he could rail and scream and tell Gabriel to treat him like he's a person, not just a hole. He could deny Gabriel access to his body until he offered up the proper respect but he'd only be denying himself, in the end. Gabriel _wants_ to get a rise out of him, wants Sam to put up a fight.

Gabriel knows that ninety percent of what he says is bullshit. And if Sam is getting some class-A sex out of it, he's got more than enough self confidence not to shoot himself in the foot.

Gabriel doesn't disappoint. He fucks Sam good. Fucks him hard and good and when he wraps his hand around Sam's stiff prick, Sam cries out, comes in a flash. It's kind of embarrassing, actually.

Sam doesn't have time to come down before he's being pulled and pushed, manhandled so he's flat on his back and he can see again and Gabriel is sitting astride his chest with his dick in his hand and then Sam is blinking and wincing because he's got a face full of come.

“ _Asshole_.” Sam mutters and then he's on his side, with Gabriel spooned up behind him, arm around his chest.

“So,” Sam says, not bothering to wipe his face clean. He doesn't want to give Gabriel the satisfaction. “You going to fuck off on me again, as soon as I fall asleep?”

He feels Gabriel tense behind him and Sam feels a fleeting sense of self-righteousness.

“It's not up to me, you know,” Gabriel says. “I'd... I'd stay forever, if it was.”

Gabriel's voice is soft now, delicate almost and his nose trails from Sam's clavicle across his neck, and stops behind his ear.

“As long as I was a good little bitch for you, right?” Sam goads. He's using his best bitchy voice – Dean's told him this is his best, more than a few times so he _knows_ it's true.

Gabriel's arm tightens around Sam's chest.

“As long as you'd have me,” Gabriel says. “I'd come back to you forever, Sam, if you'd have me.”

“If... if this... spell, this deal, this... whatever it is. If this let you, you'd come back to me forever.” It's not phrased a question, but it's almost intonated like one, with a slight air or disbelief.

“No,” Gabriel says, shakes his head so Sam feels his nose brush back and forth against the back of Sam's neck. “That's the thing, Sam. _You're_ the spell, the curse, the deal. I don't even know what it is but I know...”

He sucks in a breath and his body shakes against Sam's, his words shake for the first time in as long as Sam can remember and Sam shakes along with him. This isn't right. Gabriel doesn't get jittery.

“What do you know?” Sam asks. He puts a hand over Gabriel's, where it's clamped down around Sam's middle. “Gabriel, come on. What... What are you getting at?”

“You're going to move on,” Gabriel tells him. “You've got me for as long as you want me but eventually... you're going to move on. Meet someone, settle down... You're going to forget all about me.”

Panic flashes through Sam at the possibility.

“Not going to happen,” He grits out. “Seriously, Gabe. I'm never going to...”

“To what? Hit a dog, meet a girl? Find someone who bakes cookies and kisses behind your ear and makes you laugh when they burp the alphabet? You're going to. You're going to meet someone and you're going to forget about me and I'm going to stop coming around like this.”

“I'm _not_ ” Sam insists, snuggling back in closer to Gabriel's warmth. “I'm not. I'm never leaving this life, I'm never leaving Dean and I'm never leaving _you_. You got that?”

Gabriel sighs behind him, loud and long and Sam hears the hitch in his next intake of breath.

“It's okay,” Gabriel says. “It's okay. It's not today. It's probably not next year either. But when it is...”

“It's never going to be!” Sam nearly shouts.

“But when it is,” Gabriel continues. “I want you to remember that I spent my last days with you, and that there were never better last days, not for anyone.”

“Gabriel,” Sam says, his voice hitching from the sudden wetness. “Don't...”

“It's okay,” Gabriel tells him again. “We've still got some time.”

But that can't be. It can't be a thing, that Gabriel will leave him, that it will be Sam's fault when he does. No, Sam's not even willing to entertain the idea.

“All the time in the world,” Sam answers, shifting so they're pressed together from shoulder to ankle.

If Gabriel's right – and that's a big if – then Sam can play that game. As long as Sam believes, as long as Sam _wants_ , then Gabriel will be right there, waiting. And Sam wants. Fuck, does Sam ever want.

He drifts off to sleep soundly and happily for the first time in seven years because he knows now, without a doubt he _knows_ now that his lover will be back next year. And the year after and the one after that.

And every year.

Angels last forever. Not so human concubines, but so help him, Sam's going to drag Gabriel to his side every single Christmas for the rest of his pitiful, mortal life.

Because screw Gabriel if he thinks Sam's going to stray, that he's going to give up on this, on them. Sam never will. Not ever.

He can't imagine a Christmas without this.

Does it matter if it's not real?

END


End file.
